Page 3 of Meeting Up with the Mason

I said, “It’s eighty-five feet, and she’s not picky about choosing the stone.”

“They all get picky the minute they see what we chose.” Dad huffed. “Anyone can do that job, no skill involved. Just a guy in the sun, flattening the dirt and fitting together a puzzle with rocks. I’m not interested.”

Standard procedure after that verdict would be issuing a ridiculously inflated quote, enough to discourage the client from accepting the bid. A job that ought to come in at $750 would turn into $2800 with the client providing supplies, Dad’s only risk being that every other contractor would inflate the price even further, and she might actually take it.

About to say, “I’ll let her know,” I thought about Alyssa making puns and getting pushed around by other contractors. What came out instead was, “Could you bring someone on board for just the one job?”

Sometimes Dad paid under the table when he needed something simple, like digging a ditch. I’d even done that. Tedious work, but the money was good.

Dad kept sorting through his toolbox. “It takes time to vet the worker I bring on board and then make sure they show up and do the job.” He slammed the metal lid. “Why are you on about this?”

“Because I hate when someone’s getting ripped off?”

Dad studied me. “Did she look into the camera with big tears and a trembling lower lip?”

I smirked. “And then waved her pink handkerchief to signal her distress? Yeah, no. She started off irritated because some other contractor was badgering her that she also needed a rock wall and an army of garden gnomes to defend it.”

An army of garden gnomes might be fun. Armored up and individualized like those commando action figures I had in sixth grade, they’d scale the granite stones, calling for a raid on the squirrels invading through a hole in the attic.

Dad prompted, “And she’s cute?”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine, she’s cute. But she lives in Georgia, so cute isn’t the issue. The issue is she’s getting pushed around by our competition.”

Dad shook his head. “Let’s drive out for a look. Dollars to donuts, she underestimated the length by thirty feet and forgot to tell you about the sinkhole that’ll need to be filled first.”

We nipped out to Mashpee from Falmouth, using the back roads to avoid the miserable traffic on Route 28. The house was a two-story bungalow on a slope a quarter-mile from Johns Pond. Two maples towered near the road. Based on how one of them had dead limbs, they might have been planted at the same time the house was built.

The walkway lurched to the side, some of the pavers cracked, others subsumed into the dirt and overgrown by grass. And those steps! Alyssa wasn’t kidding about them being dangerous. If she ever visited, she’d better hike up the slope instead.

Dad slammed the truck door. “Just as bad as my wildest dreams.” He started spooling out the metal tape measure, muttering to himself as he measured the segments. “Ten feet. Twelve-five.” He never wrote down a single number, but at the end, he said, “Eighty-seven feet by three feet, and those steps mean trouble.” He retracted the tape measure with asnick. “You know why she’s got people wanting to add a rock wall? Because this is a small, slow project. First thing is pulling up all this stonework and disposing of it. Maybe a dumpster onsite, and a lot of hauling. Next, there’s leveling the dirt, and adding the base, and finally, there’s laying the new stone and the filler.”

I shrugged. “None of that’s undoable.”

Dad hooked the tape measure back on his belt. “Of course it’s not undoable. Someone did it the first time. Just, not me.”

I rubbed my chin. “Two guys, two days?”

“One guy, three days. Oh, and she can keep those granite stair risers, but they’ll need to be dug out and set back. Too many ways this could go wrong. I’m not interested.”

As we headed back to the truck, I fought disappointment. Alyssa had looked earnest, plus she was funny. She’d had so much trouble getting anyone to call her back, and now, one of the only contractors she’d connected with was going to turn down the job flat.

I said, “Can you think of anyone we could recommend?”

Dad looked at me over the hood of the truck. “Middle of the summer? Not anyone I’d want doing it.”

That was a shame because it was a nice house, and she was sweet. Smart, too. And funny.

“It’s just that…” I didn’t get back in the truck. “I could do it.”

Dad barked a laugh.

Cringing, I said, “I could!”

Dad leaned his elbows on the hood. “I thought you said she was in Georgia and not my future daughter-in-law.”

I squared my stance. “I’m not marrying her. She’s getting taken advantage of, and I could get it done. You said yourself it doesn’t take any skill—and I don’t have any.”

Dad shook his head “You’ve got plenty. You helped me on the walkway over at Misty Plaza.”

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